The Road to Normality
by Merr2
Summary: Anna: a reluctant celebrity with endless eyes and an equally endless list of secrets. Remy: her kidnapper. Again. Slight AU. Keeps with 'Cajun Spice' but branches in all different directions from there.
1. Interview with the Vampiress

When she finally reaches the building—it's disappointingly unremarkable; some stupid, girlish part of her had expected that the location of the turning point in her life would've been more special, more monumental—her breathing is heavy. So heavy she fears for her lungs. In reality they've probably been pushed this hard before: Danger Room sessions, life or death missions, meal times at the mansion, and the like—but it feels as though they're being worked so much harder because of _this_. Because of where she is, because she's here, some place she thought she would never be, some place she'd scoffed at and vowed never to approach.

Nevertheless, minds change and promises are broken. She's here and her heart is heavy, there's fire in her lungs. She's there: that place of no return, no looking back, the proverbial edge over the abyss. The dark, endless, frightening abyss.

…

_I can't start my day without a proper meditation. Meditation is the key to unlocking the soul and mind, and for some of us, it's the trick to aligning the jumbled parts of our mutation—straightening them into rigid lines so that the processes of our mind can work correctly. For centuries this practice has allowed the great individuals of our era and eras past to release their thinking to higher levels._

_For me, it's not so remarkable. I'm just a girl who learned who she was, and if this book does what it's supposed to: maybe you can find yourself, too._

Anna Robbins, The Road to Normality.

…

Anna Robbins: twenty-six-year-old author, lover of ice cream and chocolate, and future abductee (she isn't aware of this just yet) wakes with a candy bar stuck to her cheek and a glossy magazine beneath her hand. She pushes both away groggily, and rubs that same hand up and down her stiffened face. Her skin is still abnormally unexposed, even after all of these years, and it sometimes bothers her if she thinks about it too long.

Her hands, which she forces to her sides grumpily, used to be pale and sickly looking, but now are tan and her nails are covered in polish she can actually show off. There's a callous on her finger from where the pen rubs against the flesh, and she's quite proud of it. Before—she always refers to _then _as 'before'—her hands were too smooth, too protected—even more than they are now. She feels somewhat human now, instead of a china doll constantly wrapped in silk.

She grumbles something incoherently, and detangles herself from the loose-leaf papers and cotton sheets to run to the bathroom. She makes it to the toilet just in time and sighs in relief as she releases herself. 'Ah,' she thinks, 'the small pleasures in life.' It doesn't take much to make her happy these days: her treasured laptop, some sweets, and a mug of coffee are all it takes to make her smile. Of course, having her significant other around every so often isn't too much to ask—or at least, to her it isn't.

Returning to her bedroom, she glances at the clock, still groggy, and grins in triumph. She woke up on time for once, meaning time for things like showering, eating, and making a good attempt at smoothing her hair into something presentable.

She scavenges through the various blankets and sheets until she finds her phone. The damn thing scares her, always ringing and vibrating at random intervals the way it does. It even speaks to her sometimes. Taryn bragged once that the phone was the most modern piece of technology on the market, but Anna wishes she could just learn to use the touch screen without calling Tokyo or some other outrageous place accidentally.

She presses the slim device to her ear after connecting to her voicemail. There's a message from Cody—telling her how sorry he is for working so late the night before, that he'll be at the interview, and asks if dinner can make up for all the hours he's been spending away from home.

She deletes the message in the middle of a sentence and moves on to the next. It's from Taryn, reminding her of the interview at 10:00. Various threats that she'll receive if she's late—_again. God, Anna, do you do this on purpose? You _know _how bad my nerves are_—follow, but she deletes that one, too and throws the phone back on the bed. Deleting the rest of unheard messages is one of the few rebellious acts she partakes in. It gives her some measure of badness, even if the Anna of years yonder would die knowing so.

She doesn't bother with choosing an outfit, knowing that Taryn will unfailingly find something wrong with it and pick something out herself (usually tight and low-cut,) and heads to the shower instead. She smiles and can't wait to see the look on Taryn's face when she shows up ready and on time.

…

While Anna is in the shower the focus pauses, then backtracks. She walks backwards from the shower, her phone leaps from the bed and is back against her ear, she smiles, she sits on the toilet, she's back on her bed, sleeping. The sun reverses and fades until it's nighttime again. Go back further and there she is again: except this time she's in a little red dress at a dinner party, cocktail in hand.

She's chatting animatedly with a handsome redhead. She's tipsy enough for patience and graciously ignores his booming voice. He sounds like a banshee, but Cody has left her hours prior to the dinner party and she's grateful for _someone _to talk to. Famous types have always been hard for her to get along with.

She's chatting so animatedly, in fact, that she does not notice the dark man in the corner of the room. Usually Anna has a sense about these things. It can be chalked up to paranoia or the result of living with the high-strung Mystique for years, but she can always feel the gazes of others against her skin.

This night, however, is different. She's a little lonely and on her way to being quite drunk, and the gaze of this man does not penetrate her invisible barrier. She remains clueless, and continues conversating with the nice, normal man, who happens to think she is very beautiful indeed.

As if having his fill of staring, the dark man turns from the woman next to him and makes his apologies. He straightens his tie and gives the woman a debonair kiss on her hand. He turns, ignoring the woman's swoon, and retrieves his jacket from the back of his chair.

The valet, unsuspecting of the true intentions of the man, smiles at him and brings his car around front. The man tips the young boy generously and tells him to have a good night. He slides into his brand new mustang and pulls away from the restaurant at full speed. His destination is the bar downtown—where he has an appointment to keep.

An hour later, after the man has done his business and plans are set in motion, Anna hails a taxi and goes home: to her cold bed, to the comforts of food and more wine. She doesn't know, can't _possibly _know, that her fate has been decided and that this time tomorrow her face will be all over the news. Only this time it won't be there to promote her book. There won't be rave reviews or zealous fans on the screen—just her smiling face and a five million dollar award for anyone who can give any information in regards to her kidnapper or his whereabouts.

…

There's still shampoo in her hair when the shower curtain is pulled back. Anna spins around, hoping for a second that it's Cody, but sees a different face instead. Her arms go over her breasts and crotch respectively.

It isn't her kidnapper, in case you were worried, just Taryn—her loyal assistant and ex-worst enemy, next to Jean of course.

Anna is a wet, sputtering mess. "What in God's name—I'm in the shower!"

The fury on Taryn's face doesn't lesson after Anna is through stating the obvious. "Do you realize what time it is?"

Anna smirks, knowing she has Taryn beat this time. "It's 8:15, and the interview isn't until—"

She's interrupted by the sound of Taryn's manicured hand slapping against her painted face. Anna has always thought that Taryn had a bit of a dramatic streak in her: the 'Sushi Incident' for example, but she decides not to mention this now.

"You _idiot_!" She's seething. "Daylight savings time was _months _ago! No wonder you're always late for everything!"

"Oh." The shower water continues to spray her in the face. She's unable to move, lest she reveal certain parts to her female assistant. "I 'spose that would explain a lot."

And then there is chaos as Taryn drags her from the bathroom and throws some clothes on her. (Her earlier prediction was right of course: the dress she's shoved into is short, low-cut, and floats away from her body in a way that makes her feel like she's wrapped in a cloud instead of clothing.)

They speed the entire way there, Taryn holding Anna's head out of the window in an attempt to dry her hair some.

…

The 'Sushi Incident' will go down in history as the most pathetic effort to get a date that Anna has ever seen, and coming from a once untouchable girl: that's really saying something.

It involves two girls: Rogue and Taryn, a gorgeous man: random, unnamed blond guy, and their favorite sushi restaurant: aptly named 'Sushi Shack.' Rogue had just been unburdening her latest depressant onto Taryn's willing shoulders.

"It's been years, Tar. I thought they'd given up." The seafood and sriracha sauce were gumming up in the back of her throat, but she can handle only so much sentimental nonsense in one day that the discomfort is willingly taken as an issue with the food, not her throat. Not her _not _burning throat that _wasn't _constricting the longer she _wasn't _thinking about the phone call.

"They love you!" she exclaimed, popping a pink shrimp in between her exaggerated red lips. "_Can't say I know why, but_—"

Rogue, who was in one of those dark, pitying moods she hadn't been in since her teenage years, allowed the sting with nothing more than a deep, longing sigh. "Ah—I don't get it, either!" It was harder in those days to curb her accent. "I snub them, avoid them, completely cut off all forms of communication...but they still manage to find me!" She shifted on the pillow below her and stuffed more food in her mouth sulkily. "This is the fifth number I'll have to change thanks to her!"

Taryn, who usually wouldn't stand for a conversation that was in no way, shape, or form involving her, revealed one of her few gracious instincts and patted Rogue's hand. "Anna, girl, maybe you should talk to them. Especially that 'Bunny' girl, or whatever her name is—"

"Kitty. And you know the poor thing can't keep a secret. If I start talking with her then pretty soon the whole mansion'll know and then I'll have to talk to less pleasant folks...like Jean and Scott." She shivered. "Did you hear that they finally tied the knot last Spring?" Anna hid the tiny, shameful speck of hurt still left from a past crush behind a smirk. "S'about time, don't you think?"

"Jean," Taryn seethed, her bright pink fingernails and obnoxious jangling bracelets causing the table to thrum. "And Scott? How lovely. No, I hadn't heard about that but it's—" She looked as if she were swallowing a ramrod. "Well, like I said_: _lovely."

Taryn had never gotten over her brief fling with Scott back in High School. She knew then like she knew there, in the restaurant, that she'd been nothing more than an attempt on Scott's part to make Jean jealous. She also knew, although she wasn't 'fessing up, all about their perfect white wedding and Jean's perfect white smile and her perfect white dress and...but she couldn't let Anna know. Taryn promised her long ago that she was no longer 'stalking'—as Anna referred to it—Scott or leaving Jean snotty e-mails and threatening phone calls—

"And to think," she said aloud, "I used to be best friends with that backstabbing, two-trotting, no-good whore—" She grinned brightly in a way that often scared Anna. "You know what we need?"

"I know, I know: therapy." Resigned to her supposed fate, she tried to make the best of things. "But I heard about partner therapy and stuff, we could take it together! Not that we're, you know, 'partners' in that sense..."

Taryn's grin was growing fuller and more cat-like the faster plans formed in her mind. She was getting tired of spending her nights in dowdy bars on the weekends and tacky restaurants all other times of the week.

"...more like 'partners in crime,'" she decided absently.

They were in college for crying out loud! They should be having their stomach's pumped, hickies on their neck—

"Or lab partners. We're those, too."

Pregnancy scares! Not one of them has had a pregnancy scare!

"That's _it_!" Taryn stood with her fist in her palm. "I'm sick of living this way, dammit!"

The restaurant owner and full-time cook, Mr. Chiyo, was by this time used to the antics of 'the white-stripe girl' and her 'scary friend' and never raised his black eyes. To a startled Japanese customer he simply grinned and said: "American girls!" And the two men roared with laughter, like the mere mention of Anna and Taryn's nationality was answer enough for all of their antics.

Anna couldn't help but smile proudly. "That a gal! The first step is admitting there's a problem; everything after that is just easy-peasy lemon-squeezy."

"Damn straight I have a problem! It's called needing a dick in or around my—"

Anna choked on her tea and had the good graces to go bright red in front of the restaurant. "That's not a legitimate diagnosis," she snapped, grabbing Taryn's wrist and forcing her to sit back down as she did so. "Jesus, Tar, for once I thought you were being serious!"

"I am. I'm more serious than I've been a long, long time." She leaned closer, her whisper fierce, and wet, as Anna soon discovered. She swiped the moisture from her cheek and politely said nothing. "Do you realize we're practically old spinster's? I don't know about you, but I never planned on being a nineteen-year-old virgin, that's for damn sure."

Anna made no comment, and went to staring out the window instead. The choking feeling in the back of her throat was coming back, and she silently cursed herself as Taryn went on. Today might as well have been some crappy movie full of flashbacks the way things were going. Too much nostalgia for a Wednesday, too many memories for a lifetime.

"Look!" Taryn hissed, bringing Anna back to the moment with a fierce grip. "See that guy?"

She turned, earning herself a harsh pinch from her friend. "Don't be so obvious!" she scolded.

Rolling her eyes, Anna took a more secretive approach and eyed the newcomer. "He's really cute," she said to the bubbling Taryn, "but I don't go for brunettes." _Brown against her pale hand but red in the sunlight_. "He's all yours."

"Well, duh." Taryn picked up the tiny saucer and grinned. "Say 'hello' to your no-longer-single best friend." Before Anna understood what was about to happen, Taryn poured the insanely-spicy sauce down her throat.

The effects of the sauce left her after the first few minutes, but you'd never know it the way she was hanging on the man like her life depended it. She'd choked, cried, and 'fainted' her way into his arms, and found herself lucky that he was the helpful, if not stupid, type of guy. Anna got herself rounds of helpless laughter at Taryn's dramatics and Taryn got herself a pity date.

...

_The key to my success isn't magical or even amazing, it's simple: I breathe. We all forget that living can be so much simpler if we allow it to be. After all, we're simple creatures and if our basic needs are met we can go from there. Breathing. We breathe and our brains flourish. And if our brains are happy there are no limits to what we can do, what we can accomplish._

_So when you're reading this and feeling overwhelmed, when you're wondering how this can work for you just remember: we all have to start from square one. We crawl before we walk, walk before we run. Building blocks—something we can all understand._

_Just breathe._

Anna Robbins, The Road to Normality.

...

A loud roar, like a giant wall of water, comes from her side and she's deafened by it. The heels her feet have been shoved into are torturing her poor toes and she subconsciously aches for spacious combat boots. Lights, dizzyingly bright, only add to the drowning feeling and glare down on her from all around. She's sweating, she's drowning.

Her smile is so fake and brittle, but they don't know it. The interviewer does though. She knows all about the fame and fortune, the fake smiles and too small shoes, the drowning. She kisses Anna's cheek as she enthusiastically welcomes her to the show and something transfers from her lips to Anna's cheek. Something tired and universally known, yet only known to those in the public eye. Something reserved and desperate that says: 'It never ends.'

This secret message is only compounded further as Anna, bright smile still in place, sits daintily on the couch and crosses one toned leg over the other toned leg. One manicured hand over the other manicured hand. A witty comment inserted here, and the crowd loses itself in laughter. She's known as 'cheeky' among her fans. Inside she quakes, for the couch cushions feel like they're sinking, like they're going to hold her in place and never let her go.

And judging from the interviewer's desperate smile and tired, wrinkled eyes (hidden oh-so artfully under layers of make-up) maybe being in this profession really is a lifetime thing. Anna never understood why the normal people referred to short-lived acts as 'one-shot wonders,' because that is so very far from the truth that it's laughable. They're the smart ones, the ones that escaped.

"Now, Anna," the says happily, so happily her face strains, "I bet I'm not the only one who was sure your last two novels couldn't possibly be topped. I mean the sales in the first week for both of them exceeded those of Pulitzer Prize winners!"

She smiles bashfully at the applause and praise. Minutes ago the hairdressers were panicking over her damp curls and trying fruitlessly to dry them. Minutes ago the make-up crew was moaning and groaning, still working on getting her ready when she was almost on stage. Years ago, her fake smile was perfected so that no one could see through it.

"But it seems that I was wrong." Chuckles all around. "Because you're third novel has tripled their sales put together!" Wild clapping. "Why do you think that is?"

She spouts something about getting away from fiction and fantasy and getting back to her roots. It must've sounded good because the audience agreed wholeheartedly and even the interviewer has soft eyes.

"Now you've always been open about your mutation—"

Anna's sides cramp painfully. This is where it begins: the bloodsucking. This is where they'll take and she'll let them because it's been so long, feels so good, to _give _for once.

"—but what inspired you to write this novel? It's so different than your usual work."

"To help others like me. Growing up I felt alone and scared. I never thought I'd control my mutation, but with help and support from my family I did and now I want to share what worked with me for others." It's what they want to hear, what they _all _want to hear, but God it's hard to force out. Fake. Just like her smile and humor and laughter. Fake.

Soon they cut to commercial. Her interviewer, her questioner, her vampiress—visibly deflates and it takes the make-up crew and a cup of coffee to perk her up again. Or at least, she _looks _perky again.

Cody rushes up from the back, kisses her heatedly on the lips, and sits just in time for them to go live. The interviewer introduces him and there's wild clapping again and Anna feels his hand tighten around hers. She likes to think he hates it as much as she does.

* * *

Don't know what this is or where it came from. I'm resentful of this idea for pestering me so when it knew I had many other things to spend my time doing: (working on TIAD, BB, and SoG, having a life, sleeping...) but here it is. It's weird, and hopefully a little different, too.

Anyways, give me a little ring and let me know: yay or nay? and if I should bother continuing or not.

Lovingly,

Merr2.


	2. No Place for Ghosts

He hadn't grabbed her hand. She wonders why. She'd paused after turning from him, she'd even let her gloved hand fall slightly behind her to encourage him. So many signs, so many chances—and yet he hadn't grabbed her hand. There was no doubt in her mind that the swamp rat felt something for her, despite his careless exterior and attempts to act otherwise. He wanted her, wanted her more than a one-night stand or quick fling. He wanted _her_, and she read his thoughts and saw that her skin scared him not. Nor did Wolverine's threats or her involvement with the X-Men or anything else.

But he hadn't grabbed her hand. Was he afraid of something she hadn't seen? Some secret aversion to commitment that slipped her notice? No. She'd explored the insides of Remy LeBeau's ghost more times than she could count. His psyche was just as worn as his playing card.

She saw that he didn't settle down with a woman not because he didn't want to, but because he hadn't found one worth the time.

He thought _she _was worth the time. Well worth it. And that's why she's so pathetically confused. If Remy doesn't fear her mutation or the thought of being with her and her alone—then why hadn't he said anything?

When she went deeper into his essence she found other fears. Fears that aren't real.

"Hank says everything checked out okay." The rumble of his voice folds over her back like a bubbling stream.

He's afraid of the unknown. Of the demons hiding in dark corners, waiting to run their pitchforks through the flesh of his stomach and drag him to hell. Of the dead, still cursing his name in their graves.

"But I was never one to put much stake in all that medical nonsense." He sits in the chair cattycorner to where she lays. He would never sit on the bed itself: the act was too close, too personal.

She gets closer and closer to finding the answer, but each time she thinks she has it his thoughts slip from her fingers like a water snake. He's afraid of the past catching up with him and the consequences of his actions. He's afraid of being with her, but not for his own sake.

She knows more about Remy than anyone—herself included—would like. She's drunk off of his mind; high from his wild memories and dizzying tales; she's drenched in his aura and sick with his charm. She reeks of Remy—literally. Logan still averts his sensitive nose whenever he's around her.

Yet she can't figure out his hesitance in regards to her. Something about guilt...About tainting a purity the likes of which he's never seen before—

"Did…Did something happen, kid?"

She grins manically and pulls a pillow over her wet face. 'Something' can never come close to what he's done to her. 'Something' can't explain why she waits by the phone night after night, or carries his tattered card on her at all times, or even why she sort of wants to thank him for taking her away.

Especially not _that_.

"He obviously did something to piss you off." His anger boils at the thought. "Guess kidnapping wasn't enough for the jackass—"

And the most laughable thing of all is that the X-Men think she _hates _Gambit for putting her through what he did. They assume that the added bitterness to her usual glares and grumbles is because of the 'evil Acolyte' breaking her barriers and forcing her to do something she didn't want to. Not even Wolverine at his fiercest could push her if she really wanted to remain immobile, and they know this.

But she doesn't hate Remy for kidnapping her. She loves him for it.

He notes the stiffening of her shoulders. He silently berates himself and recalls Ororo's warning: whatever he did, he was _not _to mention the kidnapping. "I'm sorry, Rogue. 'Ro told me not to bother you, but I've always felt like I could talk to you more bluntly than I could the other kids."

She doesn't hate him for tying her up in rope so rough it burned her sensitive skin, or throwing her in the back of a train with less care than a sack of potatoes. She doesn't even hate him for seeing her soft heart deep inside and exploiting it. Knowing he used her hurt so much at first, but she never _hated _him for it. She'd been used so many times before that the pain was dulled.

"So if," he clears his throat. "If you ever wanna talk about…stuff, then uh—just let me know, okay?"

She hates him for pulling her up and giving her a glimpse of the care-free light that is liberty and then shoving her head back under the dark water. She hates him for breaking open her cage to let her soar in the skies of freedom, only to clip her wings and make her fall in love with him while doing it.

"I mean it, Rogue. Don't let that bastard ruin all you've accomplished here. He ain't worth it."

She hates him for not grabbing her hand and making her stay by his side on that moonlit bayou.

…

_I wish there would've been someone to tell me what being a mutant really was; what prejudice, hate, and disgust felt like. The only family I knew liked to fill my head with frivolous dreams. They told me that what I had was a gift and that I should cherish it._

_I remember wanting to switch bodies with them for a week and see if they still said that same thing. Touching your friend's bare arm to get their attention or giving your mother a kiss on the cheek doesn't seem like much. Most people take those actions for granted._

_Try living without them._

Anna Robbins, The Road to Normality. 

…

Cody keeps his hand on the small of her back when they reach the exit door of the studio and keeps it there until they get to his car. Anna thinks of him as her anchor, as her personal, non-mutant telepath that always knows what she's feeling without her having to say so.

"Thanks for drivin' her, Tar." She hears him say. "Ah got it from here."

He winks at her friend and Anna doesn't begrudge her for blushing. She knows her husband is handsome, more than handsome in fact: angelic. She sometimes wonders how she got him and why he took her—especially since their first dance together put him in a coma for nearly four months.

She remembers the mind exercises with the professor and the excursions into the deep, cobwebbed recesses of her mind where the 'ghosts,' as she called them, hid away. There she sent the psyches to dwell—along with their memories, wants, and feelings.

As a teenager she visited this place for the first time and found Cody's ghost. She looked inside of him and saw all that he felt. He thought she was beautiful. For years he'd stared at her in math class and hoped against hope that she'd show up to one of his football games. Because of her supposed 'skin condition' she looked right through him and paid him no mind.

Until that night, and after that she promised she wouldn't dream of him anymore or think about how things could've been different.

She maintained this practice for years, lest the guilt consume her. And until things in New York went bad and she returned south for a visit (white streaks dyed to match the rest of her hair) she didn't let herself see Cody's psyche ever again.

But he'd taken her—after the coma and the lack of attention—he'd still wanted her. She can never thank him enough for that.

Before he starts the car she leans over and takes his breath away with a deep kiss. His arms go around her, and she pities him for having falling in love with a shadow of herself.

…

There's a third being in their bed at all times, a specter of sorts. Where Cody's mouth and hands go the specter's invisible appendages follow. She makes love with two men: the one that is here with her and the one she _wants _to be here with her. It's Cody's skin that molds and rubs against hers, but the specter's sizzling touch that brings her to the top time and time again, that makes her writhe and gasp and plead.

But it's only at intimate times such as these that his memory sneaks up to wrap itself around her. It's only times such as these that her walls go down and her want goes up and she lets herself _feel_ him: his touch, his hands all over her, the way his lips used to fit over hers with such ease that it was so obviously meant to be.

It's only times such as these that Anna allows Remy's spirit to rise from the dead.

…

The live feed starts up too soon and the audience gets a quick peek at the news reporter berating her assistant with a slew of dirty words and curses. She pats her stiff blond hair impatiently and chucks her Styrofoam cup across the street.

"How many times do I have to tell you—" She pauses mid-complaint, enraged at being interrupted.

The camera man, finally catching her attention, winces apologetically (not really, he's been wanting to take the bitch down a peg for years) and signals to her that they're live.

With a precision unknown to most, the woman smoothes the lines from her face and rearranges her expression into that of grave solemnity.

"Judy Johnson here for Channel 8 news. I'm standing at the residence of best-selling author Anna Robbins and her husband, Cody. Just hours after Anna partook in one of the most widely-viewed interviews ever recorded, police received a call stating that the Robbins' home had been robbed. After arriving on the scene, officials found Anna missing and her husband critically injured from a bullet wound to the chest—"

…

Cody never even saw it coming. He was completely at ease when he went down to the kitchen for wine and strawberries. He'd been thinking about how much he'd been leaving Anna alone lately—and he felt bad for it. He planned on calling into the office tomorrow and spending the day together: just the two of them.

There was pain and a spreading warmth across his chest and then he was waking up in the hospital.

There is a nurse above him. She leans over the bed to hear his weak attempts at speech.

"Anna?"

She's an older woman whose seen much sadness and many tragedies. Her face seems meant for pity; sympathy suits her nicely. "I'm sorry, Mr. Robbins. Your wife went missing the same night you were injured." More pity around her mouth; if possible she frowns even more deeply. "The police still haven't found her."

He goes completely rigid. His azure eyes glaze over and he thinks about the last time he woke up in a hospital without her.

The nurse blushes for her mistake, and seeing his desperation, tries to intervene. "But don't you worry, everyone's out looking for her! Police all over the city have been searching day and night, volunteers, too—you know how people love that sweet girl—and the news said just a few hours ago that they think the dogs may have caught her scent—"

"How long?" he rasps, and steels himself for the answer.

Her brown eyes avert from his and he can tell she's debating on whether or not to give him the answer. Receiving any kind of shock in his fragile condition could prove to be fatal.

She tells him anyway, knowing she'd want someone to do the same for her if she was in this position. "Three days, Mr. Robbins. It'll be four in a few hours."

…

"Sources say they aren't sure _how _the intruders disabled the state-of-the-art security system, but they are researching as we speak." Her ridiculously pink jacket flaps around her waist. "If you look behind me—" she points to the bottom western corner of their mansion.

The summer before Anna and Cody had planted daisies around the bottom trim of the entire house as a bonding project. Their sweat, frustration, and patience went into the work and Rogue would've screamed had she seen what the intruders had done.

"—you can see where the break-in occurred. It's obvious from the damage done to the landscape and the shattered window that the culprit, or culprits, were not worried about being sly."

The camera zooms in—past Judy, past the police, past the ruined flower beds—to capture a closer glimpse of the window. And there (unseen by anyone until much, much later) on a jagged edge of broken glass, rests a piece of cloth that will complicate this kidnapping more than anyone could have expected.

…

Anna hears pops and crackles right near her ears. Water bubbles surround her and tickle her skin. She feels comforted by the warm water around her and steam rising up to heat her face and ears. She finds herself grateful for silence, because years before this peaceful moment would not have been possible: Too many different voices tearing her inner mind apart.

There was never a time—not even _once_—that she regretted the lack of chatter going in inside of her head. She never missed them, never found herself shrinking from the absolute quiet.

Not even Remy's ghost. Especially not Remy's. His psyche's residence in her battered mind only further showed her how far away he was from being hers, how pathetically hopeless her little crush was.

Anna takes deep breaths because she knows her thoughts have gotten too serious. She stills all movement of her body, sinks deeper into the hot tub, and once again welcomes silence.

She finds that calm again—

Until everything she knows is turned upside down by the shattering of glass and the sound of a gunshot.

But before the actually kidnapping itself occurs, an incident of equal importance must first take place. The scene changes from Anna in the tub to the night of the cocktail party. Once again Anna and her suitor are ignored and the focus goes to the shady man watching her from the corner.

His face comes into view. Startling white hair frames an unexpectedly-young face. Blue eyes, just like his father's he is often told, burn with a chilling coldness. This man is bitter; some say he would have every reason to be.

Because years before his father was attacked with the same 'cure' that runs through Anna Robbins' veins. The Great Magneto was reduced to the inferior species he so despised in the blink of an eye, and after months of sulking the once-great pursuer of justice perished quickly and quietly in his bed.

His son blames heartbreak as the culprit. In life, Pietro and his father were never close. He was always trying to please the unappeasable; always wearing himself down with joke missions and dangerous situations to win some of his father's approval. In life, Pietro couldn't understand his father. In death, Pietro understands him completely.

Along with his father's death came an unwavering maturity that startled those around him. Suddenly he could relate to the remote enigma that was Magneto. Things began to make sense and the passionate fever for mutant supremacy that plagued his father infected him, too. He hid his immense grief away and mourned in a different way: by action. He quartered his father's troops and spoke to them like their once great leader had. He boosted their hopes and dreams, and the doubters could only doubt Pietro's will for so long before they too followed him.

His empire is building, but he has to take things to the next level. What he truly needs, as the case may be, is attention. He needs the cause Magneto started to once again be brought to the public eye.

And who could help him more than little-miss-traitor, Anna Robbins, as she goes by now. She's the perfect testament to everything Pietro stands against. When he kills her everyone will know he and his people's exact thoughts on the human-processed 'cure.' They'll know, too, that the brink of war will once again loom in the near future.

He gets a thrill every time he thinks of this, and his hands tighten around the steering wheel of his Ferrari until his knuckles crack.

His speed demon tendencies do not stop when it comes to main roads. He pushes the car to the very limitations of its engine and whips through the streets of New York, paying no heed to passerby's or other vehicles. Smoke forms around the misused tires and fills the air. Not surprisingly, he reaches the bar in no time and exit's the car and races to the door.

He's among the group of men, seated comfortably in a round table, before any of their eyes have a chance to catch up.

Their shock only makes him more arrogant. "A little slow, aren't you boys?" he says smugly. He took great pains years before to slow down his speedy speech, one of the only changes he's consciously made. He found that people listened to a voice that resonated and made them feel emotion—rather than a voice they could barely keep up with.

"You've _really _got to stop doing that," one of the men says, decked out in a full tuxedo. "My poor heart can't take many more of your…surprises."

The yellow-haired man speaking to Pietro is prone to dramatics, so he does not pay much mind. "I've called you all here today because you're the best of the best. My associate here has run checks of some, and as for the rest of you: your reputation proceeds you." He inserts a dramatic pause accompanied by a charismatic (at least—it was _meant _to be charismatic) grin.

Most of the small gathering remains listless and unimpressed.

"I want something, and I want it bad. The type of skill it'll take to pull something like this off requires more than the run-of-the-mill thief." He smirks again, seeing the slight bloom of interest in faces all around. "I want a person."

There are cries of outrage. A woman in the back out yells the others. "We're not kidnappers. We're professionals." She moves to leave and most move to follow.

Until Pietro speaks again. "Fifteen million dollars will go to the one who can successfully bring to me the prize, half up front."

There is no movement or speech. The woman shatters the silence for the second time: "Never knew a woman could be worth that much. Who?"

"Anna-Marie Robbins. I'm sure you've all heard of her."

"A damn celebrity—"

The sound of metal boots slamming against the ground pauses the inquiries. A man who'd remained in the corner during the entire meeting, who'd not interacted with anyone else, who'd kept his opinions, thoughts, and outcries to himself—finally leans forward from the darkness. His face is all shadows and red glow.

"Anna Robbins: de author, _oui_?"

…

_To control your mutation you must first accept it. To accept it you must make peace with all that you are—your past included. No matter how much we try and ignore or how far we try and run_ _the past can't be erased. It's a major part of who we are that won't ever stay in its proper place—_

_And it will always catch up with us._

Anna Robbins, The Road to Normality.

* * *

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	3. Hurricane Rogue

Her name is Belladonna Boudreaux—and she was beautiful. The supposed love of his life. The one that got away.

Her name is Genevieve Darceneaux—and she made his heart aflame. And though he'd been so very young back then, his innocence had already been dwindling. He sometimes thinks that when she hurdled to the unforgiving ground she took what was left of it. He's been old ever since.

Her name is Monet St. Croix—and he was convinced that he could never feel such pain, such remorse. Holding her broken body in his arms; hearing her gurgled, bloody last words: was incomparable.

And then there is Rogue—or, as he would soon discover: Anna-Marie. Also known as 'The Hurricane,' capitals absolutely necessary. She disrupted every thing he knew and entrapped his heart and soul more than the actual natural disaster ever could.

And, dammit, he loves her for it. Hates her for it. Wants her _because _of it.

It's a damn shame he can never let her know.

…

_You didn't make it to your High School graduation because a power-hungry, metal-helmet-wearing kook decided to try and kill you. This power-hungry, metal-helmet-wearing kook decided to try and kill you because you happen to support his arch nemesis' (and strangely—best friend's) pie-in-the-sky dream of equality._

_If you hadn't missed your chance at normality, you would've gone to your High School graduation, followed the steps, and received a cheap-looking diploma that does not seem to solidify your twelve years of schooling, but that you accept anyway because that's just how it's done._

_And you'd feel disappointment deep down inside because everything you've done has lead up to this and all you get is a paper and thirty seconds of recognition as you walk across the stage and shake the hand of the man who gave you detentions and suspended you from school._

_You'd be disappointed. I'd have been happy. Because, for me, life is nothing but missed chances and almost happiness._

Anna Robbins, The Road to Normality.

…

Despite the somewhat eccentric tendencies of the LeBeau clan, the sound of shattering glass on the spotless marble floor is a thing severely uncommon. From the eldest member to the smallest toddler—not one would be seen being clumsy enough to disorganize _Tante's _color-coded tub ware, much less drop a glass on the floor!

They've been taught since birth to act only with grace—unless to do otherwise would prove beneficial. Every move they make holds a certain finesse that is not easily shakable.

They aren't just thieves, they are a guild, a way of life: royalty even.

So when the prince of said guild is heard shouting, it is only partly startling. Some of the younger men, the 'Ragin Cajun' especially, are known to be loud when sober and roaring when drunk. The unease comes with the sound of shattering glass.

Family members reach the living room in moments (thieves are quick on their feet too.)

They arrive to find Remy standing in the middle of the vast room, mouth open, hands trembling around the book in his grasp, red eyes wide.

There are groans, scoffs, complaints, and annoyances with his dramatic display as the room is emptied. Only Emil stays, and he looks closely at the thick novel in his younger cousin's hands.

"I know it's shockin', _ami_, but not _dat _shockin'!" He chuckles at his own joke, and isn't even offended when Remy clenches his jaw and stomps wildly from the room.

Remy continues to hear Emil's laugh in the hallway. His hands are trembling around the book and he wants to look so badly but knows he can't until he's in his room: secure, alone, and able to show every single emotion he's feeling without receiving any sort of questioning.

Finally, the sound of his heavy door closing behind him. Finally, the feel of his expensive coverlet against his back and cushioning his head. And finally: her face.

Her beautiful face that he's never really forgotten though at times he pretends he has. From her face his observance goes to her neck. The photo is of her in a sundress surrounded by flowers. Her neck—smooth, chilling, porcelain—is exposed and he remembers when his tongue ran along that flesh.

Along with her face and neck, inevitably comes the notice of the rest of her. There are things that weren't there when she'd been a teenager: the delicious plumpness in certain places being one of them. There are waves of cascading curls over slim shoulders that had once been bare. There are green eyes that can shine with all of their haunting brilliance because there is no black eye shadow or thick eyeliner to hide them away.

There is a dullness in her smile when there once was fire. He thinks about what could have tamed The Rogue and replaced her with Anna over the next three days as he devours her first novel.

…

The obsession began long before the discovery of that novel, and would not end until he lay on his deathbed. Since the day he gave her that card (he'd almost _wanted _her to blow up, just to prove she hadn't done something to him in the first few moments they met) he was hers completely and she was his somehow and their fates were wrapped and wound and intertwined and knotted together: trapped.

He's trapped, and he hates her for it. Loves her for it. Wants her _because _of it. And it's a goddamn tragedy that she is pure and he is soiled and that to take her and keep her with him always would be the greatest, most irreparable sin he's ever committed. He let her think he cared nothing for her; he let her hate him—and for her sake things must stay this way.

Remy found some sort of peace after his return to New Orleans. He came back to his family and performed his duties as prince. Though he would still not concede to marry Bella Donna, he excelled in all other wishes of the guild.

He gets drunk sometimes; goes to the brothels sometimes; pays for a lap dance on special occasion: he is fine with what he has. But now The Hurricane has entered his life again and he knows nothing can go back to the way it was.

Her second book comes out eight months later. She writes of princesses finding their true loves in worlds that are too beautiful for reality. Princesses with powers beyond belief and families of pixies and sprites. It's beautiful and as he reads and re-reads he realizes that this is the most intimate he and Rogue (he will now and forever continue to call her what he believes to be her _true _name) have ever been; closer than they've ever been. He'd always had an idea of the magic of her mind, but now she is revealing it with her words and he's enraptured.

And as Rogue's fame grows and she's wanted on TV shows and red carpet events and award shows: her invisible hold tightens around him. He buys the interviews she takes part in on DVD. He records her TV appearances. He keeps the magazines she appears in; a stack of them begins to grow by the side of his bed.

She makes it in the top five of the world's sexiest women three times, and he buys the episodes and repeatedly watches the clip of Rogue in bikinis, Rogue in glittering dresses, Rogue in sleek cars, Rogue in her husband's arms. And when he sees this: Cody's lips on hers, the possessiveness in which he holds her—it doesn't hurt. Not as much as it could at least. Because, though she is content, Rogue is never _happy _with Cody in any of the pictures or shows that he examines, and if Remy can say anything he can say that he's been one of the few people alive to have seen Rogue openly, deliriously happy.

…

Rain. Water droplets falling harshly and continuously on the ancient roads and on the roofs of houses. Tin roofs are his favorite, for they _'ting' _and thrum and it is a musical directed entirely by mother nature. He taps his foot along with the rhythm.

In bubbles like the one he's surrounded in now he does not need to care about his _père_, or the guild, or anything. Only pleasant dreams make themselves known. Dreams and fairytales and impossible little pockets of contentment dance across his mind and he _thinks_. Thinks of going there and saving her and letting her live, letting her escape those walls before the restraints cause her pretty petals to wilt, before they snub the fire out of her like they've done to the Wolf Man.

Smoke. Orange cherry burning away paper that's filled with nicotine and tar and poison. The building he leans against keeps his cigarette dry; he pulls in smoke deep into his lungs and releases it in playful little o's. Like a signal. If she could read smoke rings and if he could send them to her he'd tell her to pack her things and say goodbye to those she cared enough about to say goodbye to. He thinks that, in all brutal honesty, there is no one she would miss enough to be unhappy with him in New Orleans.

The rain stops. The orange cherry reaches the filter. The sun rises. Traffic starts back up. Voices talking and screaming and laughing resume: it's like his bubble, his moment of solitude, his safe place where time does not exist—has been popped and reality is revving back to life and life continues to go on and the earth continues to rotate.

He smiles and heads towards Bayville High. If he remembers correctly (of course he remembers, along with the rest of her schedule) her first class begins at 9 am sharp.

He wouldn't want to keep her waiting.

…

"Anna Robbins: de author, _oui_?"

Remy chuckles because he's such a smartass, and could care less that no one else gets the joke: that he's a sick fuck with a sick obsession and that he knows everything there is to know about Anna Robbins. He knows more than these second-class thieves and petty pick-pockets _ever _will. And that's exactly where the comedy comes in: because he's asking for the name of the woman he's dreamt of every night for ten years, the woman he's watched psychotically for months, the woman who's schedule he's memorized more thoroughly than the woman herself has.

"Gambit." Pietro moves to try and get a clearer look at the Cajun's face, but Remy has chosen the spot he sits in carefully. "How did I know _you'd _come?" He laughs.

Remy's reminded then how much he's always hated that little prick. "Because y' know how much I missed y' all dese years, Quickie." There are laughs and Pietro's carefully-constructed superiority is swept from under his feet. "Plus I heard y' need de best of de best for dis job. An' here I am."

Pietro snorts and gives Remy the exact same 'better-than-thou' look that his father had given him multiple times a decade before. It takes Remy back in time for a moment.

"You're a fool. Do you really think I'd let someone with past history take this job? You know her too well for this, LeBeau." His icy irises flare. "And I seem to remember that you had a certain soft spot for that little skunk—"

Pietro has no idea about his feelings for Rogue, or what they'd shared, or how the love burned them up. He has no idea now, but if Remy does not get his jaw to stop clenching and his fists to stop sizzling he certainly will.

He needs to keep himself unconcerned: cool and breezy. Light as a feather, completely apart. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about her. Barely knows her. She's just like every other woman he's bedded before, no more, no less.

Remy smiles and it is so carefree that Pietro is taken aback.

"Funny joke, _mon ami_. A soft spot for de untouchable? Ha! Y' certainly remember all of de lady friends I had back den."

"Of course I do. All of Bayville knew of your…activities." He sneers once more and Remy senses a long-buried jealousy. "But you still have some history with her, Gambit."

"But dat's de _beauty _of it!" He grins his white grin and rests his hand on the shorter man's back. "Could we go somewhere mo' private?" Remy gives a pointed nod to the curious thieves around them.

Pietro concedes and leads Gambit to a small room attached to the warehouse. Remy's training forces him to instantly asses that there is one door and two windows: three exits without having to make anything go 'boom.'

The speed demon offers him a cigar, and Remy accepts with a wink. He doesn't like cigars very much—too cumbersome, not at all convenient like cigarettes—but he takes it because he needs to do something to calm himself and distract his mind from _her_. He needs to get back to aloofness, he needs to milk this out and let victory come to him. If he wants it too badly everything will fall apart, and he's worked too hard and too long and needs it too greatly to let that happen now.

And by 'it' he means 'her,' and by 'her' he means Rogue, and—

—and he needs to focus. Get his head out of his ass; study Pietro as closely as Pietro is studying him. Only difference is: Pietro has no chance of reading _Le Diable, _and whatever the quickster picks up on will be completely calculated.

" You were saying?"

He pretends to have forgotten, because after all: this topic of discussion is of no importance to him, and grins sheepishly. "_J'Désolé. _I was explainin' how my 'former history' wit de _belle _could prove beneficial for both of us—"

…

There is sunlight streaming in through the bay windows, and the crème-colored drapes _Tante _so diligently had made blow in the slight breeze. His head is pounding and the bandages around his chest are a constant reminder of how close he'd actually come to losing a gamble.

He looks down at his hands with the one eye that isn't swollen shut. His knuckles are cut up to hell and his fingers are still throbbing even after all of these days. And beneath all the skin there is blood. Blood that will never wash away.

_Murderer!_

"S'a miracle dat we found y' when we did." Henri's voice is full of an emotion that Remy clings onto.

At least _someone _would have cried had he died.

"We thought y' were dead."

_Dead! So many dead!_

"Y' friends in New York…"

_Too far...Too much..._

Remy listens to the rustling of leaves and thinks of green eyes.

"We have yet to tell dem de good news. Dey still t'ink y' dead, _mon frere_. As soon as y' feel better—"

"_Non._" Let her think he's dead.

_How could ya?_

And he thinks of green eyes.

…

Remy winces at their boorish entrance and shakes his head at the amount of noise they make. Though he was not informed of the entire plan, Remy understands that Pietro doesn't want this kidnapping to be quiet. He wants it anywhere and everywhere; he wants all to know.

While Pietro's men ransack the place, Remy helps his senses to a filling up of the home. He runs his fingers along the recently-polished furniture. He stares at photos of the two occupants of the house with some insatiable interest. He notices that there are numerous pictures of Cody's family, but none of Rogue's.

Remy supposes that this makes sense.

He stands in the middle of the living room and lifts a book left half-open on an inn-table. Next to it is a honey-colored cardigan he knows must be Rogue's.

And he purposely turns his mind away from the thought of lifting the soft material and bringing it to his nose; and continues with his journey. The prints of the house he saw earlier are fresh in his mind (he'd memorized the layout of the home long before Pietro even came up with this scheme) and he finds the staircase and takes the first step. He knows his boots must be mucking up the pristine white carpet, but he wants Rogue to feel him in every part of the place; he wants her to know without a doubt that he isn't taking 'no' for an answer. She belongs to him.

He wanders to each room and leaves his mark in different ways. Ways that she will be able to see but that the police and such won't. He entertains the thought of further unsettling her home, but the building excitement in his gut won't let him. He wants to be the one and only man she sees tonight. He wants to be the one to discover her unawares and in shock.

Vulnerable.

The master bedroom is in a separate little nook. He looks over the items in the room and his gaze inevitably comes to the bed. Demon eyes run over the rumpled blankets and sheets, the pillows on the floor, the clothing strewn on the headboard carelessly.

Something is burning him up from the inside out.

Remy closes his eyes and shoves the sick feeling aside. If he doesn't acknowledge the thought of another man parting her velvety flesh then it isn't real. It didn't happen, because Rogue…Rogue will always wait for him.

Her sultry humming and whispered singing comes to him from the bathroom. Soft splashes of water add a mystical touch.

His feet move without his brain's full permission, and before he knows it he's there: at the door, looking in, seeing her for the first time—_really _seeing her; no cameras, magazines, television, through windows, just _her_—and there she is: standing by the vanity, facing his direction as if she _knew _he'd come back for her after all of these years, skimpy white towel barely covering anything, water dripping slowly but steadily from her curls.

He can tell by the serenity in her eyes that she thinks this is a dream. He wonders, as he comes closer and the skin over her collarbone tightens in anticipation, whether or not she's had dreams like this before. His fingers touch her neck, but her endless eyes don't leave his. His hand falls to the towel and he loosens the knot there. The soft fabric barely makes a whisper as it falls to the floor.

He holds her naked hips and presses her against his chest. Without letting his lips leave her hair, he uses his free arm to go through her drawers and fill up the bag he's been carrying over his shoulder. He does not have time for her to get dressed, the men will be upstairs soon, so he slips off his trench and wraps her up in it.

The way she is staring at him makes him feel like the only thing she's ever wanted, and the back of his throat sticks to the front.

He lifts her—Rogue, The Hurricane, Anna—bridal style.

But before they can escape into the moonlight there is the sound of shattering glass and a gunshot.

...

_I used to walk. For miles. I would start early in the morning and stay away until the evening. It made me so exhausted that not even the migraines or nightmares could keep me up. _

_It was an escape._

Anna Robbins, The Road to Normality.


End file.
